


Long Awaited, Gladly Welcomed

by Gileonnen



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, Grieving through Military Excellence, Heavensward Spoilers, Intimate Gun Lessons, Stephanivien's Scheme to Arm All of Ishgard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:01:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24434779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gileonnen/pseuds/Gileonnen
Summary: Seeking distraction from his thoughts, Artoirel goes to knock a striking dummy around. However, when he encounters Stephanivien troubleshooting a finicky gun, Artoirel finally lets down his guard.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29





	Long Awaited, Gladly Welcomed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ishgard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishgard/gifts).



It's a rare, clear day, when the sky is a perfect azure blue and the snow glints off the cliffs all the way from Providence Point to Whitebrim. Even so, the sharp winds of Ishgard freeze Artoirel's ears and chap his bare cheeks raw. His breath comes in thin white clouds as he strides through the streets, making absentminded courtesies to this countess or that vicar of Halone.

He flexes his gloved hand on the hilt of his sword to work some feeling into it. _I'll soon work up a fine sweat, and then I'll scarcely notice the cold,_ he tells himself. _Haurchefant always said that if you could hold out half a bell, you could endure any cold, and he loved the warmth of a fireplace more than any other._

Perhaps that ache, too, will ease with time.

Down to the training yard, where the beaten practice dummies mass in their scarecrow ranks. With so many soldiers dispatched to the Gridanian front, the sunken ring of flagstones is all but deserted, and snow gathers in every corner and crevice in the stone.

 _Crack!_ Artoirel can't help flinching at the sudden report, which rings and hangs on the clear air. His eye is drawn inexorably to the archery butts across the way, where a slim figure stands poised with an arquebus aimed at a shattered target. At first, he cannot place the stranger--then the wind catches in his blond hair, and all at once he recognizes Stephanivien de Haillenarte.

It has been a long time since the two of them have exchanged so much as perfunctory pleasantries; he cannot well remember the last time they truly spoke to one another. Artoirel would feel less out of his depth were he faced with steadfast Francel, or Laniaitte with her sure shield and sword. They are knights after his half-brother's heart, kind to their foundations, and they would not begrudge him his slow arm or his poor form. He would know what to say to them, and perhaps they might even know how to answer.

Stephanivien is a madman who is out shooting targets in naught but a cotton shirt undone to the navel, and Artoirel has not the faintest fucking idea what to say to him.

He turns to the nearest striking dummy and lunges at it, bringing the full force of his sword arm to bear--steel bites into the hard wood, not deeply enough to stick but hard enough to send a jolt of impact through Artoirel's arm. The shock of it pulls him out of his anxious thoughts, into his body; his muscles flex. His blood heats.

Again, a flurry of slicing cuts; the dummy spins and Artoirel parries its wooden sword. Whirling as the dummy whirls, turning like an answering gear, Artoirel gets in a deep blow behind its shield arm, and even this small triumph sings in him like a victory. Stephanivien's gun roars like thunder, and this time Artoirel is ready for it. He lets the shock wash over him and leave him unruffled in its wake.

He craves the challenge of a true duel, but this is good--the growing warmth of exertion and the pleasure of his own skill; the resistance of the wood against his blade. Even the continual percussive _crack_ of the gun becomes no more than a reminder that he is not alone.

Ishgard fades. The moments bleed together until he cannot tell each from each. The cold in his hands in ears is as distant as great Sohm Al. Nothing remains but the sword and the foe and the pounding of his blood in his ears.

At last, panting and heaving, Artoirel leans on the striking dummy and feels tears prick at his eyes. The dummy still stands, silent and scarred, and he has done nothing but wear himself out.

Only then does he realize that he has not heard the gun for some time. He straightens, glancing over, and finds Stephanivien watching him raptly.

Upon being noticed, Stephanivien shoulders his gun and grins, one hip cocked out and his eyes bright and sharp. The wind ripples the light fabric of his shirt, but he scarcely seems to notice the cold. "Hallo," he calls.

"Hallo," Artoirel answers, wary. He is deeply aware of what an unpromising picture he must make, with his eyes and face red and sweat starting to freeze in his hair. Even at his best, so many of his acquaintances look upon him and see a man broken by grief and scandal--and this is so very far from his best.

When Stephanivien looks him over, though, something in his expression softens. In a way that he can't entirely describe, Artoirel feels like a broken thing laid out in pieces upon a workbench, waiting to be cleaned and put together again. That soft, shrewd look seems to see past the break and to the act of repair.

_Compassion. Could that be all it is? Am I so starved for compassion?_

Stephanivien steps close enough to sling an arm around Artoirel's shoulders. Even through his armor, Artoirel can feel the heat radiating from his skin, as though Stephanivien's slim body were housing a tireless furnace. "If you're tired of knocking that dummy around with your sword, perhaps you'd like to try your hand at the weapon of the future."

He offers the gun, the long barrel of it pointed away from both of them, and Artoirel takes it carefully into his hands. "I haven't the first idea of how to use this," Artoirel says. It comes out softer than he means it to.

"Here." Stephanivien shifts to stand behind him, taking Artoirel's gloved hands in his own. He arranges them with care, one finger poised at the trigger, one hand steadying the barrel. "Look ahead. Trace a line between your eyes and the sight, and the sight and the target. Machinistry is nine tenths geometry; if you can imagine a straight line, you can fire a gun."

Artoirel huffs a laugh. "I rather thought there was more to it than that."

A puff of white crystalline breath gusts over his cheek. "All right, there's a _bit_ more to it. The final tenth, as it were. Wind speed and gravity. Getting used to recoil, training yourself not to flinch, paying attention to how the gun builds heat. And the aetheric connection is rather finicky on this model. I've been trying to fine-tune it while you hacked away at your erstwhile foe."

"None of that is comforting."

"But as I said: nine tenths of it is that straight line." Stephanivien's chin rests on Artoirel's shoulder as comfortably as though they have been doing this for years. His hands shadow Artoirel's on the gun. "Look to your target. Feel the aether building in the gun. And then, when you're ready--fire."

Artoirel sights down the barrel, tracing that line to the targets at the far end of the practice yard. He lets him imagine it like a shining thread, linking them together.

Nothing standing between them. Nothing but the clear air.

He pulls the trigger, and the gun rocks him back into Stephanivien's arms with a blow like a punch to the chest--he bites off a cry, eyes closing instinctively against the sudden force and sound.

Stephanivien laughs and hugs him tightly. "Look you," he says. "You're a natural marksman!"

When Artoirel opens his eyes, he sees the target splintered down its center, and he can't help a startled whoop of joy. _I wish Haurchefant had seen that,_ he thinks, and then braces for the expected ache--but for the first time in longer than he cares to remember, it doesn't come. The pride lingers, undiminished, and slowly he realizes that it will not diminish.

"Thank you," he says, when he has recovered himself. "I admit, I had little interest in machinistry before this moment--but I begin to see the promise of your arts."

"Full glad am I to hear it," says Stephanivien, voice rich with genuine warmth. "Because I see much promise in you, my dear friend, and I would have you cultivate it among those who can help you to flourish."

And in that moment, unexpectedly, Artoirel does feel like a dear friend--one long awaited and gladly welcomed.


End file.
